


A Lyke-Wake Dirge

by ClockworkCourier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Deities, Established Relationship, Grim Reapers, M/M, Necromancy, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-24 09:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21097574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: Witness, brothers! A looking-glasswith visions future and present's past.Its surface sprinkled with the tearsof widows wailing these thirteen years.Hold up the glass and say the words—'Tis done!Or; my fics for the 2019 Halloween Terrorfest





	1. The dead began to speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 19th - It's alive!
> 
> Based on the Hartnell Grim Reaper AU. No one's surprised.

Most of the men are asleep, making Fitzjames feel as a child walking on his toes to avoid waking them. Fat lot of good it does, with the shale loose underfoot, clattering against itself as he makes his way to the sick tent. The midnight sun presses a late kiss to the far horizon, casting their usual grey world in an otherworldly, golden light. Campfire smoke swirls about, skirting about the tents like gossiping ghosts following alongside him.  
  
_It’s the situation_, he thinks. _Morbid, isn’t it?  
  
_Lieutenant Little stands outside, rifle pressed against his shoulder and a hangdog, exhausted look tugging at all spare holds on his face. Poor Edward probably hasn’t slept since the parties returned. Fitzjames gives him a quick look of sympathy as he approaches, and then nods toward the tent. “Are they all present?” he asks.  
  
Edward nods and sniffs. “Doctor Goodsir arrived just before you. The Captain’s already there with…” His voice trails off into a quiet rasp before he sniffs again, lowering his face into his scarf. “I won’t allude to know what’s going on, sir.”  
  
“If it’s any consolation, I’m at the same loss,” James replies before patting him on the shoulder and heading inside.  
  
It’s the second time he’s been in this tent under the same terrible auspices. The Arctic draft in the tent flaps does little to disperse the heavy haze of rot and chemical stenches. Irving’s body hasn’t been moved, still under the same discoloured canvas stained brown in patches like giant flecks of India ink. Someone’s seen fit to provide them with a single lantern hanging from a hook over Irving’s head, casting the small, stinking space in waxy light. Goodsir’s already dressed for the occasion, shirtsleeves rolled up in lieu of the extra sleeves he used before, and stained apron protecting his waistcoat. He’s got a small wooden chest open on a table beside him, little bottles shining like gems in a pirate’s treasure hoard.  
  
Francis stands opposite Goodsir, hat tucked under his arm and knowing eyes already alighting on James. He gives him a short nod but says nothing. In the funerary atmosphere, it seems fitting.  
  
The man beside Francis—nearly invisible in the shadow he’s tucked himself into—draws James’ attention. Tom Hartnell isn’t out of place here, as James knows he’s been unofficially deemed something of the Expedition’s resident undertaker. At first, James thinks this may be the intention of Hartnell’s presence, to aid in preparing Irving’s body for burial once they finish their examination. But he sees the look on Hartnell’s face—eye sockets bruise-coloured and hollow, lips pale and cracked, the entire structure of his body threatening to collapse under an unseen weight.  
  
He’s here for something else.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Francis says. He looks between them, eyebrows high and expression expectant. “No doubt you have your questions as to why we’re here a second time after Lady Silence’s observations. However, I’d ask you keep them to yourself for the moment.”  
  
Silence. The lantern shudders, the wind shrieks through guy lines and rumbles against canvas.  
  
“Very good,” Francis says at last. He turns to Hartnell. “Mister Hartnell. At your leisure.”  
  
Hartnell gives him a weary look but walks up to the body’s right side. It’s the first time James has truly been struck by the man’s face, at the mournful line of his brow and his sad mien. His bottom lip trembles once before he steels himself and nods. Then, with an almost reverently slow motion, he reaches up and draws back the canvas covering Irving.  
  
The dry and cold conditions of the camp have made it so Irving’s corpse hasn’t changed much in the interim. There are only a few differences James can identify: discolouration of the fingers, jaw slightly dropped open, eyes half-open, pupils fogged, nose and lips almost blue, and the ragged edges of his wounds and autopsy scars folded inward like dried flower petals. James feels himself startle a bit at the sight while the other three men seem unperturbed.  
  
No one moves for the longest moment, until Hartnell slowly reaches up and rests his hand over Irving’s lacerated forehead. James almost has it in mind to protest, to break Francis’ single rule and ask questions before the termination of what ever this is meant to be.  
  
The words die in his throat just as Irving moves.  
  
It’s gradual—almost _natural_, like the shivering of shadows in the lantern light. Irving’s fingers twitch, his jaw opens and closes, and he blinks his eyes. Slowly, life rolls back into him like the tide, drawing in and out with a breath that he _cannot_ possibly have, as his lungs were disposed of discreetly in a fire. James watches in horror as Irving turns his head, dead eyes moving to rest upon Hartnell’s face.  
  
“John,” Hartnell says softly, affectionately. His hand hasn’t moved from Irving’s head.  
  
“Thomas,” says the corpse. His voice seems to come from several places in his body, from the stitched-up scar on his chest and each hole pocked into him with a boat knife. It’s just a gasp of sound, woven together from threads of rotting tendon. Irving’s right hand rises to rest on Hartnell’s wrist, blue-black fingers gently running over the jut of bone.  
  
James isn’t sure who is more inclined to faint—Goodsir or himself.  
  
“Oh, _God…_” Goodsir whispers, clearly shocked.  
  
Francis raises a hand to silence him. “Please, gentlemen,” he says.  
  
James is horrified to think that this isn’t the first time Francis has seen this display.  
  
“John,” Hartnell repeats, thumb brushing over Irving’s brow. “I need to ask you something. Is that alright?”  
  
Irving nods. It’s accompanied by a sound like the creaks of a ship, coming from somewhere deep in his body.  
  
“Good. Thank… Thank you,” Hartnell whispers, smiling even as tears begin to leave shining trails down his cheeks. He sniffs once before clearing his throat, apparently realising he’s there to do a job. “You were murdered, weren’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” gasps Irving.  
  
“Not by the Netsilik. The people like Lady Silence.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Hartnell nods and keeps the gentle rhythm of his thumb on Irving’s brow. He smooths down some of the hair not attached to his ruined scalp. Irving’s hand stays on Hartnell’s arm; he seems content to leave it there. “Hickey?” is all Hartnell asks, except now his voice has an edge to it—a dangerous one.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Just Hickey?”  
  
Irving nods, creaking again. His jaw works on his words for a moment before he rasps, “Killed Farr.”  
  
“The same way?”  
  
“Yes.” A pause. “I think.”  
  
James knows Farr’s corpse was much less mutilated. He was not ruined to the extent of Irving, and now it makes the clearest sort of sense. James wonders now why any of them believed Hickey at all. His disbelief there is only just eclipsed by the disbelief he feels looking at Thomas Hartnell speaking to a dead man.  
  
“He did this to you,” Hartnell says. He sounds miserable, angry. If it weren’t for Irving’s state now, James has no doubt the man would take off after Hickey to do him what Hickey saw fit to do to the lieutenant. “All of this.”  
  
Irving’s eyes flit about like he means to take in the sight of himself. “He did,” he replies in a sort of sigh like a musician drawing a bow over strings.  
  
Francis steps forward, making use of the stunned silence shared by James and Goodsir. “May I speak to him, Hartnell?”  
  
Hartnell nods, but doesn’t move from his place. His hand only lowers to rest against Irving’s cheek.  
  
Irving looks up at Francis, blinking slowly, jaw moving uselessly on a wordless gasp. Finally, he draws up the word, “Captain,” through his blue lips.  
  
“Hello, John,” Francis says, his tone warm but bittersweet. “Are you in any pain?”  
  
Hartnell is the one to reply. “He can’t feel anything, sir,” he says. Even so, his thumb brushes under Irving’s eye in a soothing gesture. “They never do.”  
  
“Doesn’t hurt, sir,” Irving agrees.  
  
“Good. _Good_.” Francis seems to say this to himself as much as to Irving. His hand rests on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing against the folded hem of the canvas. “You said Hickey acted alone?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did he kill any of the Netsilik?”  
  
The corners of Irving’s mouth turn down, but the movement looks unnatural, his frown put into place by a set of invisible hands. “I don’t know,” he rattles, some fluid gurgling in his throat as he speaks. “He…”  
  
His voice falters and goes quiet, his eyes rolling back as Hartnell shushes him, raising his free hand to cover Irving’s own. “Not much longer, I promise,” Hartnell whispers.  
  
Irving comes back in a flicker of movement, a full-body shudder that seems to radiate outward from his chest to his extremities. The first noise he makes is like a soft retch, and ink-black fluid drips out of the right corner of his mouth. Hartnell quickly moves to wipe it away.  
  
“Stabbed me,” Irving says. “Stab. Stab. Sta-_ha-haaa_—” The last syllables come out in a shudder of his jaw, the muscles losing tension and causing his mouth to hang open, disjointed. Hartnell frowns and gently presses it closed, keeping his hand framed around Irving’s face to keep it all in place.  
  
“Sir,” Hartnell says, looking up at Francis in concern.  
  
Francis nods, his pained expression fixed. “Was it quick, John?” he asks. He sounds hopeful.  
  
Irving nods slowly, partially with Hartnell’s help. “Hurt,” he says.  
  
“It hurt?”  
  
Another nod. More fluid leaks from his lips.  
  
Anger chases agony from Francis to Hartnell. It’s like watching two hounds scenting out a fox for a chase, and the fox is _certainly_ in their midst.   
  
Hartnell leans forward, pressing his forehead to Irving’s. He doesn’t seem to care who sees them, or what they may think, just as he doesn’t mind the horrid wound he touches. The two of them close their eyes, Hartnell breathing slowly and drawing one of Irving’s hands to his chest. “He’ll pay for this, John. I promise,” he says.  
  
Irving hums from each wound. Dark blood begins to seep from his nose.  
  
Francis clears his throat. “It’s time, it seems,” he says. Then, he looks to Goodsir. “Doctor, can you confirm all of what Lieutenant Irving has said?”  
  
Goodsir nods, eyes fixed upon Irving, face drained of colour save for two bright spots of red high on his cheeks. “I can, sir. I… I do not know what I’ve seen just now, but stranger things have happened here, to be sure.”  
  
“They have,” Francis replies. He looks down at Hartnell and Irving, nestled together like a warren of rabbits. There is nothing but fondness on Francis’ face, and James wonders how much has been said between the three of them. “Then with that, we are now certain that Petty Officer Cornelius Hickey was singularly responsible for the murder of Thomas Farr, Captain of the Maintop, and the murder and mutilation of Lieutenant John Irving. Of this, we all mutually agree?”  
  
“Yes,” Goodsir says first.  
  
James nods, clears his throat, and says, “We do.”  
  
“Very well. Hartnell?”  
  
Hartnell doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, he sniffs stands up straight, a streak of reddish-brown blood on his forehead. He makes no motion to wipe it away. “Sir,” is all he says.  
  
“I’ll leave you to… release him privately,” Francis says, reaching over and resting a hand on Hartnell’s shoulder. He gives one assuring squeeze before letting him go. “Take your time if you need to. When it’s finished, we’ll see to burial preparations. He’s to be buried with every possible honour that’s within my power to grant.”  
  
Hartnell nods, wordless. Fresh tears shine on his face.  
  
Francis nods to Goodsir and James, a silent gesture intended to command them to file out and leave Hartnell and Irving in peace. Goodsir leaves first, wringing his hands in his apron, followed by James. Behind him, James can hear the last few words Francis offers to his fallen lieutenant.  
  
“Thank you for your service, John,” he says. His voice fades with each step, until all James hears are words like _bravery _and _proud. _  
  
James doesn’t know what he’s seen, but as he steps out of the tent and into the hazy gold of an Arctic midnight, he knows he agrees with Goodsir. Stranger things have happened.  
  
❧

  
Irving is buried in the morning. The funeral is private, presided over by James and Francis, and attended by some remaining officers and a few select crew. No alarm is raised until the last stone is put in place over his makeshift tomb. Little places a small silver medallion on the flat stone by Irving’s head—a mathematics prize medal for a competition held a lifetime ago. On the side facing up to the silver-blue sky is Irving’s name.  
  
Hartnell stands off to the side, expression blank, eyes unfocused. When the burial is completed, he turns his head to look at the distant camp.  
  
To Hickey.  
  
Francis orders the arrests of Hickey and Tozer, and the immediate trial and execution. He’s to base it on Goodsir’s anatomical findings and evidence discovered at the Netsilik murder site. No word is said on what went on in the sick tent. James doesn’t know how Hartnell was capable of what he had done in bringing a dead man back to life; Francis has avoided the conversation since then, except to say that it wasn’t the first time he had done so. The subject is buried as Irving is, and James finds that it might be for the best.


	2. In the woods somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Never sleep again
> 
> more weirdass death deity AUs? ancient ones? artsy shit? aw yeah.
> 
> (this is unbeta'd because i am SO tired and already SO behind on these chapters. i'll go through it in the morning.)

When the crops turn from gold to ash, leaves fall from char-black bones of trees, and the rolling Highlands are snow-grey in the dying daylight, John is sacrificed.  
  
He knows it’s to happen. He’s _known_ since childhood, when bad luck followed him with such intent that no tongue in the village could escape the gossiping twine. His mother died in his eighth year, a fever burning her from the inside out until all that remained was a husk of a person wearing her slackened face. They buried her on her favourite hill—the one overlooking the sea where she sang songs of worship to a goddess with no name. John’s father had a cross carved for her grave to avoid the bare-headed monks’ scrutiny. They promised to say a prayer for her on the same night that the family wept in the grove, offering bowls of fresh ale to the trees.  
  
As John grew with his brothers and sister, and they married and made good names for themselves while he struggled and failed at all he touched, the black cloak of horrid luck grew heavier. He watched as each of his siblings returned with some gift for their father to prove their worth and gratefulness to him—George with a hefty leather pouch of gold from his successful trades, Lewis with a gilded cross from his parish, Mary with the question of blessings for her eldest child, Alexander with a beautiful sword from the south, Archibald with his poetry and song from his golden tongue, and David with a copper brooch signifying his place as a protector of their community.  
  
John brought nothing.  
  
He _would_ have brought shame if his father knew of the secrets weighing on his heart. When he first travelled to find his fortune, he found only a love drawn up in him like waters from the deepest, sweetest well, intended for the mouth of a boy named William Malcolm. Then, he found sorrow in his travels to the south, and illness in his journeys to the west. Wherever he went, his heart grew more cumbersome and unwieldy, his gold disappeared, and his mind fought him. Finally, when George died of a night fever, the crops failed and turned to ash before they could be harvested, and mothers wept as the early cold took their youngest children, all fingers secretly pointed to John as the source of horrid luck.  
  
That autumn, his name is uttered in the black grove. Blood of a black heifer is spilled into a flattened copper dish, swirled about with crushed holly leaves and water from a saint’s spring. The wise woman rubs the mixture between her fingers until it is cold and tacky, and then presses it over her rheumy eyes. Fresh goat’s milk and honey pass her lips, and John’s name follows.  
  
It’s to be done by the ancient practice—one that hadn’t died with the coming of the cross so much as it became a secret. A celebration will be held in the grove, to summon up the necessary spirits and restore happiness where only sorrow lay. Then, John will be led into the woven shadows of the trees to meet his fate, as many had done before him over thousands of years.  
  
No one told him how it was done, save for rumours of obsidian blades to the softest part of the neck, or poison water stopping the heart. He knows it’s needed, however. He can never bring the gifts that his brothers and sister brought to their father’s feet, but a sacrifice—one done nobly—is a gift greater than most. To lay his life before his father _will _be enough.  
  
❧

  
The grove is alight with bonfires and candles in the naked tree boughs. Villagers dance and sing, offering their voices and energy to Those Unseen. They throw offerings into the largest fire—one surrounded by stones stained red with goat blood. The air cloys with the smells of burning herbs and food. Everyone feasts as they wish; no one eats with the mind that the village starves. If the gods accept the sacrifice, everyone will have more than enough to eat in the coming months. Their mercy will not abandon the village.  
  
They crown John with a ring of woven holly leaves and strips of yew bark. He’s clothed in a black robe tied shut with an embroidered white sash, made by the most skilled hands their people can offer. The wise woman paints his forehead in mixed blood and ash from their earlier sacrifice, thumbing ancient marks onto his skin. As the mixture dries, it itches—he doesn’t dare wipe it away. Then, she kisses a spot at the centre of his brow before whispering something in a language he doesn’t understand. She steps away, and people rise to feed him from bowls overflowing with fresh cream and fruit. Each person imparts their wishes into his body as he eats, hoping his sacrifice will speak these wishes to the god that takes him. His stomach aching with nausea, however, he forces himself to nibble some from each bowl, just to make them happy.  
  
The full moon finally rises to its apex over the grove, casting it in gold from the fires and silver of the moonlight. The wise woman declares that the time has come, and John must finish the last portion of the ritual.  
  
He goes to his brothers and sister, all lined up beside the largest bonfire. Each embrace him, holding him close. Lewis weeps onto his shoulder and whispers apologies. Alexander holds John’s hands in his own, the callouses from his sword burning into his hands. Mary sobs and kisses each cheek before holding him and resting her head in the crook of his neck. Archibald and David embrace him as one, standing with him in mournful silence before allowing him to go on.  
  
To his father.  
  
His father sits on a chair carved from an ancient oak, decorated on the arms and legs with emblems of thistles. In the firelight, he looks like a king from the old stories, face carved with hard-won wisdom. He’s silent as John kneels before him, offering nothing but himself.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John says, soft enough that only his father can hear. “This is all I have.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Then, his father’s hands rise to John’s shoulders, urging him to stand. For the first time, John looks at his father—_truly_ looks. It’s not done in shame or sorrow, but in pride. He sees an old man just as he sees the man who raised him, who fed him, who wept at their collective losses. Old gnarled hands rise to cup John’s face, and hazy eyes fill with tears.  
  
“This is _more_ than enough,” his father says. “It always has been.”  
  
And then he lets him go.  
  
John does not look back as the wise woman leads him to the mouth of the deep woods. To look back is to regret, and to carry too much weight into the emptiness. He stares at the ground as the wise woman binds his hands behind his back, tying them with dried gut. When she’s done, she begins to sing in that incomprehensible language, letting him know that all he can do is walk. He will never be able to return, never sleep in a bed or sup from his father’s table, never gaze upon his family or the few friends he has. John must walk away from his life entirely.  
  
He does so, taking moonlit steps into this new, strange world.  
  
For hours, he walks, unsure of where he goes but knowing that all he can do is move on. His mind flits about like wrens in the brush, summoning up shadows in the dappled midnight silver. He sees his mother, George, and Malcolm walking beside him, and then they disappear as mist burns off in sunlight. Then he sees other creatures—bears, goats, cows, deer.  
  
Deer.  
  
More and more deer.  
  
First in ones and twos, and then in herds. They move silently with him, matching his steps as their silver antlers shine in the gloom. Hundreds surround him, leading him further and further into the forest. Finally, they lead him to a copse where the forest opens into an almost perfectly circular clearing. At its centre, a large flat stone long enough for John to lay across without any part of his body dangling off the edge. The moon is bright as a lantern overhead, giving him a full view of this odd place.  
  
_This must be where they die_, he thinks, envisioning the stone like a table for a god’s feast. He imagines they’ll start with the soft part of his belly, opening him like a fruit and savouring his innards before drinking his blood like a sweet wine. Will they take his head as a prize, or keep it on to watch his face change in agony as they pull him apart?  
  
“None of that, actually,” a soft voice says.  
  
It comes from everywhere but nowhere, riding on wind that does not blow. John looks about quickly, trying to make tangible shapes from the warped shadows. Something rushes by his head, like a breath behind his ear.  
  
“They’ve chosen you, then?” the trees hiss.  
  
“How fortunate,” says the stone.  
  
“How _un_fortunate,” sings the moon.  
  
Hundreds of eyes fall upon him, flickering in the trees. Then, only one set seek him out—that of a great black stag that now stands upon the stone. Its larger than any stag John has seen. If it were hunted, its meat could feed John’s village twice over. Large, gnarled antlers rise from its head like tree branches, crowning it king of this odd realm. Eyes like small moons blink at him before it lowers its head and snorts, mist falling from its mouth.  
  
John doesn’t know what to do or say. The stories never reach this far into the ritual, but he imagines this stag will use its powerful antlers and gouge him full of holes. Perhaps it will eat him whole; he hopes it won’t choke on his wretchedness.  
  
“Why do you think of yourself like this?” asks the stag in a startlingly human voice. It sounds like a young man, carrying an accent from the south. “Do you think you are not enough?”  
  
“I’m meant to die,” John replies. He’s too afraid to think of another option. “They chose me for this.”  
  
“Your village?”  
  
He nods.  
  
The stag huffs and raises up to its full height. Then, it carefully steps off the stone, hooves soundless on the soft earth. As it walks, grasses rise and flowers bloom in its wake. It goes to John, until it towers over him, this looming figure of power and the sign of his end.  
  
“They do not know what they throw away,” the stag says, and its voice echoes in the bruised hollows of John’s skull.  
  
In a blink, the stag disappears, and in its place stands a man.  
  
He _is_ young—not quite to his thirtieth year yet. His hair and eyes are light, struck from the moon itself, the freckles on his face and bare shoulders like constellations of stars. All he wears is a simple set of trousers, like those of a farmer. His bare feet rest in the grass as clover and bluebells tremble around them. What marks him as _truly_ otherworldly are the silver antlers that shiver like a mirage over his head.  
  
“Who are you?” John hears himself ask.  
  
The man smiles. “That which has always been since the first sunset and moonrise,” he says. “That which causes the mourning cry and the bittersweet memory. I’ve followed you all of your days.”  
  
Death. This man is the God of Death.  
  
And he is the loveliest creature John has ever seen.  
  
“Will you take me?” John asks. The gut binding his wrists seems to cut into his skin now.  
  
“To devour you?” the god replies, and it sounds like a joke. Then, he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t, but I _accept_ you, so long as you shall have me.”  
  
Confused, John frowns. “What do you mean? Others have been sent here before me and never returned.”  
  
“And I sent them on their way, to the place where their loved ones wait. Do you think I am so cruel?”  
  
“I don’t know,” John says, honestly. He’s never known the gods and spirits of the woods, and oftentimes the stories about them made it seem as though he had much to fear.  
  
The god raises his hands, as John’s father had done only hours before. He presses them to each side of John’s head, thumbs brushing his cheeks and the soft spots beneath his eyes. Under the god’s scrutiny, John feels small and vulnerable, like a child facing something so much bigger than himself. In an instant, the bindings on John’s wrists disappear and a strange, warm feeling fills him like a clay jug of spiced wine.  
  
“I will never harm you,” the god tells him. His antlers spread until they are a canopy over both of their heads. “I offer you a choice, as I’ve offered to very few before you. But I _know_ you, John. I know the weight on your heart and the misery you carry inside of it that makes you certain that it’s not fit to burn in my fires. And I can tell you that this _isn’t true._”  
  
Tears spring to John’s eyes, unbidden. He cannot find his voice in the tightness of his throat.  
  
The god continues, still brushing his fingers across John’s face, wiping away the wise woman’s marks. “All I find in your heart is love and sorrow, which all humans carry in different measures. I’ve found such _love_ in so few before your time, and I do not find your spirit wanting for anything else.”  
  
With that, the god reaches around and embraces John, pulling him close until John can feel his skin against his own. He feels like a cool breeze, the relieving cold of a river on a hot day, the first snowfall. He smells of fresh rain and thunderstorms, of the deep earthy scent of the forest. John wishes he could stay in his arms for the rest of time. The god leads him back toward the flat stone, pulling him onto it and adjusting him until John’s flat on his back.  
  
A proper sacrifice, splayed out for the god he was intended to serve.  
  
“Your choice,” whispers the god, as does the forest and the sky and the air around them. “You can go to those who have gone on before you. Your mother, your brother, and your ancestors all the way back to the first man who bore your blood. You can dance and sing and feast with them for all eternity in a happiness that knows no end.”  
  
Silence follows.  
  
“Or?” John asks.  
  
“Or you stay with me,” the god tells him, even quieter now. His voice is made of the sounds of mice and rabbits burrowing and songbirds preening their soft feathers. “And I love you as I always have, keeping you by my side with your heart as mine. You will know of the gods and goddesses and each spirit in the world around you, and you will know Death as no one has known it before.”  
  
John thinks as he looks up at the god above him. At this angle, he seems to be a part of the night sky, cast from starlight and the deep blue-black tapestry beyond each tiny silver pinprick of light. At that moment, he knows that he’s been with this god before, has known him since the very beginning and all along since then. He knows this god’s true name, spoken as no one has said it before.  
  
The god keeps speaking, now as if in awe of John rather than the other way around. “You will never know the need for sleep or the ache of hunger again,” he promises, reaching up with one cold hand to grasp John’s, weaving their fingers together. “You will be as I am.”  
  
Without another thought, John agrees. He does not speak it in words. Instead, he reaches up with his opposite hand and pulls the god down to him, kissing him deeply. On his lips he tastes the dying autumn and the frozen winter, and the promise of the glories of each. They embrace, and John feels the world die around them. Leaves fall, crops go gold with their treasures and die with the tightly-woven frost. The god’s hands pull John’s sash apart, pushing the robes from his shoulders and onto the ground beside the stone. He kisses the line of each straining rib, showing with hunger, and down to the starved hollows of John’s hips, lower and lower still.  
  
Autumn glows warm and glorious, then cold and still. Snows fall and drifts rise as John and the God of Death make love in the grove. They move as one, shrouded in all reminders of life and death until the last breath of the season rises in John until he shouts in its pleasure, and winter falls upon them both in a great gust, leaving them both shivering.  
  
When John opens his eyes again, he does so as something sacred. He is marked with the woad of the colour of the night sky. Surrounded by snow with his chest open and moonlight in the place of his heart, and in the loving arms of Death, he smiles for the first time in years.


End file.
